The Dusty Road

It has been so long since I've posted.  I'm a little ashamed of myself - but life... well, life has just been crazy lately.  I'm pulling a writing out from earlier this year tonight to get myself back on track.  I'd love some feedback.

        The dust settled about my feet as I paused only for a moment.  The rumble of the crowd lining the street became dim in my mind.  My feet stumbled a few more steps – dry and cracking against the uneven and stony ground.  I winced as the cracks broke open and my blood began to dot the dry ground.  It drank my blood thirstily, leaving only dark smears as I drug my feet.  The tears began to trail down my face, mixing with the sweat from the wood strapped to my back.  It was my guilt, my shame, every wrong I had ever done.  They had found out about it all.  There had been no mercy as they tied my wrists to the rough wooden post across my back.  I stumbled again, the wood scratching into my almost-bare back, the ropes digging into my wrists as I struggled to remain standing.  I gasped, but it was hard to breath beneath the weight of the planks.  My sobs came in short, spastic bursts that blurred my eyes and parched my throat with dust.  I could no longer make out the people lining the street.  How could they do this?  How could they watch me suffer this way?  My knees buckled and the rough hand of a soldier jerked me back to a standing position.  I yelped as his fingernails dug into my parched skin.  Sweat ran down my back and arms and legs in streaming rivulets.  When my legs decided they could hold me no longer, I crashed to my knees.  Unable to catch myself, my face smashed into the ground next.  Though my knees hurt, it was nothing compared to the sharp pain radiating through my face.  As I struggled to rise, the warm metallic taste of blood drizzled into my mouth.  I lost my will.  Let them kill me here.  There was no point in getting back up.  There was nothing left to live for. 

            Then I felt someone move to my right.  I instinctively flinched, expecting a crushing blow.  Instead, a firm, warm hand grasped my upper arm and pulled me gently to a kneeling position.  A man that I had never seen before cupped my chin, raising my face to meet his.  He had the kindest eyes I had ever seen.  I couldn’t understand why the guards had stilled, watching with cautious eyes.  The man knelt beside me as I watched him and began to untie the rope binding my wrists.  When he finished with the first, my arm fell to my side, numb from the pain.  Then he moved to my other wrist, carefully untying it.  As my body slumped, he grabbed the wood on my back and lifted it off with a groan.  The plank was heavy and awkward.  He set it on the ground and then knelt before me once more.  “Why?” was all I could think to whisper.  A soft smile graced his face.  “Because, my child, you are loved.  Believe in me and you will be saved this persecution.”  My brain struggled to understand.  “But who are you?” I murmured, my voice shaky.  The man placed a gentle hand on the side of my face, wiping away a trickle of blood with his thumb.  “I am.”  As he spoke those two little words, the guards seemed to come out of their trance and grasped him roughly.  I watched in shock as they threw the boards upon his back and jerked the ropes around his wrists.  What were they doing?!  I couldn’t move, though.  I watched as they yanked him to standing.  Blood was already coursing down his arms from the ropes.  As they began to pull him along the dusty road, his eyes met mine one more time and he whispered, “Believe I am.”  Suddenly, I knew that this was the man I had heard about.  The Son of God.  The I am.  My legs had lost their feeling and as they dragged him away,  all I could do was watch. 

            By the time I could feel my legs again, I ran after the crowd following the soldiers.  I watched in shamed silence as they raised a rugged wooden cross and I recognized the man hanging on it.  Blood gushed from wounds in his hands and feet as he sagged against the cross.  I pushed my way through the crowd and fell to my knees at the foot of the cross.  His eyes met mine when I raised my head.  “Father, forgive them,” he cried.  Then, eyes still holding mine, he whispered, “I will see you in paradise, my beloved.  You have been set free.”

Put your clothes back on...

FAIR WARNING:  This post will more than likely aggravate, irritate and generally piss off some (most) people.  You do not have to read my blog.  That little red "X" up in the right hand corner of your screen will get you out of here in the quickest fashion.  Otherwise, sit tight because I'm feeling "rant-y."

I check Yahoo! every morning before work.  All of my email accounts are through Yahoo! so it's only natural that I browse through the headlines of what they call "news."  Let's be honest - that and the local weather is pretty much the only news I get because watching the actual news is depressing.

So, I've been noticing several articles about the new "50 Shades of Grey" movie.  Please note: I have not read the books and do not intend to.  I am not a prude.  I'm just not comfortable reading a book that is wholly about sex (in a fictional fashion).  I can read a book that has a few sex scenes and it doesn't bother me.  However, I will not be reading this series.  Just like I will not be seeing "Magic Mike."  All of my reasoning boils down to this:

I would not be okay with my husband seeing a movie based solely on the life of a stripper.

I would not be okay with him seeing a movie based solely on sex.

I'm sorry - call me what you may, but if I'm not okay with him doing it, then I am certainly not going to do it.

"But it has a story line..."

Yes, and Hooter's has chicken wings.  But that's not why people go there, right?

I digress. 

We have such double standards for what's okay when it comes to men and women. 

Mind you - there is a GIGANTIC difference in noticing someone as attractive as opposed to undressing them with your mind.  

I can admire Channing Tatum as an attractive man - but to watch him literally strip on the big screen is going to cause my mind to think things that are not beneficial to my husband, my marriage - or basically in general.

I have no problem with my husband noticing an attractive woman.  One of his favorites is Natalie Portman (my gosh, the woman is gorgeous - let's be honest).  I notice attractive men.  That is natural.  However, when you take it a step farther is when it gets out of hand.  We have to protect our minds and hearts because if we're honest, that's where the trouble begins.  The moment you start thinking "Oh, it's no big deal" is the moment it can get a foothold in your life.  We have to safeguard our marriages, our minds, our hearts, our children.   

Thus begins my rant (oh wait, you thought I had started already? Haha).

Women of the world - wear some damn clothes.  When did we move away from believing that modesty could be beautiful?  I understand the need to express yourself.  I understand the desire to wear something that shows off your body.  However, you can do both of those things while covering up.

I daresay that a well-fitting pair of jeans and a well-fitting shirt can be just as sexy as a pair of short shorts and a tank top.  I daresay it may be even more sexy.  When did we, as women, start thinking that we have to show off our bodies to be noticed?  

And when we decide to "dress with less" - what message are we sending to the people around us?  

My husband doesn't need to see your boobs.

My daughter doesn't need to see your boobs.

I don't need to see your boobs.

Cover it up.

We, as women, have been given incredible, strong, beautiful bodies.  There is nothing wrong with being proud of your body.  But can we please start treating them like we're proud of them?!  

Beth Moore said it best.  When women "dress with less," we are trying to be noticed.  Usually, we don't care by who.  Just someone.  Anyone.  And what if that someone is another woman's husband?  Or an 8-year-old boy?  Or a man with his 6-year-old daughter?  

Yeah, yeah, I hear the opposition now.  "Well, he shouldn't be perverted."  "Well, he shouldn't be looking."

Goodness gracious woman!  When you walk in with barely any clothes on, I notice!  And I am neither perverted nor a lesbian.  

It is natural to notice.  However, if you have to bare it all to get noticed, then you are not attracting the right attention.  

You can't honestly tell me that a man who finds you beautiful is going to find you more beautiful because you have less clothes on.  If he truly finds you beautiful, he will think that no matter what you're wearing.

Do you know how hard it is to teach an 8-year-old girl to dress modestly when all she sees around her is short shorts, spaghetti strap tops and bikinis?  Oh yeah, I had to have that conversation with my daughter when she asked me why I wouldn't let her buy a bikini.  She is 8, for heaven's sake.  EIGHT YEARS OLD!  No, I'm not going to let her buy a bikini.  I wouldn't let her run around in public in her panties.  Why would I let her do it in a different material?  

I have been extremely convicted lately about modesty and the way I dress.  I own a bikini - yes.  I've been so convicted about it lately, though, that I will no longer wear it in public.  We got ready to go swimming the other day and I wore it with a tank top over it for some cover.  I wouldn't dare go in public in my bra and panties - why would I do it in waterproof material?  

Go ahead - call me what you like.

Go ahead - say I'm being judgmental.  

But I don't want to be that woman.  I don't.

Say whatever you like, but the bottom line is this:  Modesty is sexy.  Leave a little bit to the imagination.    

She can't do it like you...

Every time you think “I can’t do that like she does,” just remember that she can’t do it like you can either…

I read those words from a fellow blogger this morning and was like “WHOA!”

Stop the presses.  Hold the horses.  Bar the doors. 

It’s about to get real in here and I need to pay attention. 

I have always heard that comparison is the thief of joy.  I know that.  I understand that concept.   I recognize the value in that statement.  But, being that I am only human, I still compare. 

I compare myself in looks, beliefs, parenting, etc…  and I’m pretty sure that if you were totally, down-in-the-dirt honest with yourself, you do too.

We know we shouldn’t.  We do it, though.

We compare ourselves to friends.  To enemies.  To co-workers and family members.  To the woman we see in Wal-mart.  Or the doctor’s office.  Or a magazine.  Women we have never met.  Women we know.  Women we don’t know.

 

Stop.  Right.  Now.

 

There is only one of you.  There is only one person who acts, thinks, speaks like you.  There is only one person who loves like you, laughs like you, creates like you.  Because there is only one – you.

It’s one thing to be inspired by another woman.  To inspire each other is beautiful.  To encourage each other in some way to become better versions of OURSELVES is remarkable.

To compare ourselves to each other is an attack by Satan.  And what really gets me is that I just let him.  Normally, I don’t fight the comparison.  I just let him slip on in there and start rambling around.

WHAT?!  Since when did we – as God’s girls – start letting Satan just walk around in our lives and do whatever he wants?  Since when do we not fight back? 

Because we’ve convinced ourselves that comparison isn’t harmful – it’s not hurting anyone.  It’s not a sin.

Honey, I want you to know that, as I type this, I am preaching to myself more than anyone else.  I am turning my pointing fingers back to me.  I am acknowledging that I am the world’s worst about this.  But you know, if you admit it, that you struggle with it, too. 

I’m not saying that I won’t ever do it again.  I’m human.  I’m weak.  I am far from perfect. 

But I am taking a stand.

We all know how it feels to have something we’ve created deemed “not good enough.”  If you’re a writer, an artist, a mother, a friend, a human – at some point, someone has taken something that you created and told you it wasn’t good enough.  That is exactly what we’re doing when we start comparing ourselves to other women.  We’re basically telling God that His creation, His masterpiece, His carefully-wonderfully made creation is not good enough.   

Ouch.

I don’t know about you – but that stings a little bit. 

So, take a minute and think about who you’re comparing yourself to and why.  Now remind yourself that you are the only one like you!  You are a beautiful, wonderfully molded, UNIQUE creation of the Most High God! 

I may not be able to do it like “she” does, but she can’t do it like me, either.

 

 

Until next time,

Keep Reflecting J

P.S.  When you start comparing on Facebook, just shut it down.  Put the phone, tablet, computer away and look at what is right in front of you.  That’s why you’re not her.  That’s YOUR life.